Socialite

Yes, my life is nonstop action. Friday, had dinner at Matyson. It's recommendable. I ordered the filet and A. had the little tiny innocent baby lamb which they practically slaughtered at our table; it was quite pinkishly medium rare. We also requested two appetizers but I'm blanking on what they were...Oh, right, one was the liver of an animal. For dessert, we ordered monkey brains on ice (not really--we had a huge chocolate ball with peanut butter inside. Very good). Cabbed it to Vox which was filled with hipsters in varying shapes, sizes, and different colored tight jeans. We missed Carrie and Padhraig by a hair and went home instead to watch Dirty Dancing and paint each other's nails. One thing I like about A. is that he will say no to something, but if you keep asking, and if you ask nicely, and if you don't exactly whine, he might change his mind and say yes and then you can paint all of his toenails a bright red (provided you promise to remove it the next day).

Saturday, bought some crap at Target that I don't really need including this black jersey dress I'm wearing today ($19.99) and a toothbrush holder. Met up with Miss Sullivan at another fancy pants restaurant called Parc, a new French bistro on Rittenhouse Square. I had no idea it was a Stephen Starr restaurant. I might have been snottier about it if I had known because it seems kind of bad and suburban to go to a corporate chain-ish type place (though Jones is still one of my favorite restaurants). However, it was very good, even if our waiter might have been a little too attentive. I had the beef bourguignon; very very very very good, the meat was really tender and Molly had an omelet (?). The place was full of rich people including two couples near us where the women had that tight stretched look on their faces like aliens because of plastic surgery. Molly made me switch places with her half-way through the meal so she could people watch. We laughed so much that our mascara ran. Next, we walked to a couple of nearby bars and were going to go into one but Molly noticed that this guy she had been set up with twice was sitting at the bar. She didn't end up liking him; there was something weird about his hair, she said, as though it weren't real. It was more like a pelt, she explained. She hid in the dark corner across the street while I squinted in through the window to see if I could notice anything weird abou this hair. It did seem kind of odd--like the hair you put on those little plastic Lego dolls; the kind you can pop off and put on. It was too perfectly shaped or something.

We went instead to Snackbar, another upscale place where legend has it, Demi Moore and Ashton What's His Face have been spotted on occasion. I ordered a ginger ale and a Rice Krispie treat--$7 and it came with whipped cream and strawberries and was made with cinnamon. It was so good that I almost proposed to it. Molly had a mojito for $10. Our waiter sported a handlebar moustache, dark jeans held up by a thick leather belt and cowhead belt buckle, and something red tied around his wrist--some cotton version of a sweat band. He had a strange way of moving, sort of this dramatic series of poses where he would move, then freeze, say something, and move again. I am guessing he's an actor, though perhaps that's a total stereotype. He almost sneezed on our food and then didn't. He asked me what I wanted and I said, A handkerchief, please. Then he asked me how I liked to eat my RK treat and I said, Fingers. So, he didn't bring any forks, just two knives. It was sort of charming, but I'm not 100% comfortable in small intimate expensive places.

Sunday, met Padhraig at Chapterhouse and read the Sunday NY Times. Carrie joined us and told me about an acquaintance of hers who got pulled over by the cops and swallowed a bunch of crack cocaine he had in the car, I guess, because he was afraid he would be searched. He od-ed and died. What a dumb way to die. It bothered me all day yesterday b/c I kept thinking how it was avoidable--isn't there anywhere else you can hide it? Are cops really that thorough? Did he know he would likely die? I guess he wasn't thinking straight. He'd been in rehab before for crack cocaine addiction, and maybe he was facing jail time or something. They wrote his death up on Philebrity (he was a contributing writer there) and I was reading some of the comments. It seems very odd when people write directly to the dead person, like, "I will miss you." Or one girl who wrote, "Sorry I didn't call you back last week." I mean, he's dead. He won't be checking the comment section of Philebrity.